


Hurt Me Hurt You

by Janekfan



Series: TMA prompt fics [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Arguing, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face Slapping, Gen, Italics, Jon is asking for it, Kinda?, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Scars, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Strained Relationships, he wants it, just a little, like so many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Prompt: What about Jon, crying frustrated tears back either pre Canon or in S1 and Tim comforting him and helping out until the breakdown has passed, contrasted with Jon, crying frustrated tears either from being so overwhelmed or from something Tim did in seasons 2/3????
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: TMA prompt fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082912
Comments: 38
Kudos: 159





	Hurt Me Hurt You

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This came out a certain kind of way. Took on a mind of it's own D:

It was cold. Of course it was, it had to be to protect the documents packed in boxes floor to ceiling all around and everywhere he looked there were more and there was no way he could _do_ this!

Inhale, exhale. Calm down.

He’d have to remember to bring a spare jumper so he could work because as it was now his fingers were too numb to work properly and when he tucked them under his arms it only made him feel worse. Made him feel small and alone. Reminded him of a lonely childhood. 

Stop it. 

But Jon didn’t know where to begin. He could pretend. He could keep his assistants busy with real work, that wasn’t a problem but what was _he_ to do? What did an Archivist do, really? Archive? Organize? How? When everything was a giant, muddled mess filed, a generous term, in no real order or catalogue he’d been able to understand. It was all just. 

Overwhelming. 

A splash of wet warmth collided with his wrist and embarrassed, Jon scrubbed hastily at the tears streaming down his cheeks. This was, he was stupid. Stupid. He should be able to handle this. At the end of the day, wasn’t it just shuffling papers around? Putting them in some semblance of order that only had to make sense to him? It had certainly worked for Gertrude. The sorrow and frustration came anyway, falling from his eyes and heating his skin and he was so caught up in his own discomfort that by the time he processed someone entering his office, it was too late to hide. 

He tried anyway. 

“Oh, Tim. Yes. Wh’what can I do for you?” It was a useless misdirection; Tim was sharp eyed and protective and honestly, it was a relief to see him because if Jon was going to continue crying (and it didn’t seem like he would be stopping anytime soon) there was no one better. 

“Jon? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” And the tears which he’d managed to slow, came back full force and Jon tucked his chin to his chest and shook. “Ah, hey now, can’t be as bad as all that.” Gentle, Tim tugged him close, holding him around his shoulders and allowing him to bury his hot face in his stomach. “You’re alright. Whatever it is, we’ll help, okay, Boss?” A palm swept up and down the seam of his spine. “We’re a team! We can do anything if we’re together.” Jon pulled in a hitched and shuddery breath, nodding resolutely. Tim allowed him a few more quiet moments before ushering him out of his office where Martin and Sasha were certainly not waiting for them. Martin approached first, compassion shining clear in his expression, and took up his hands.

“You're _freezing_! Here, come with me. I’ll make you some tea and get you warmed up straight away.” Martin would hear nothing of his protests, pulling him gently away to the breakroom, warm fingers curled around his own. Just this once, Jon would let it happen, the reassuring glow of being surrounded by friends soothing the remnants of panic that had overwhelmed him so thoroughly before Tim found him. They were speaking easily around him about nothing important and Jon let himself drift in the current of their familiar voices. 

It was cold down here. And dark, though Jon could _See_ just fine, like he couldn’t hear them but _Knew_ they were searching and feared the worst, that he’d gone hunting in the streets for first-hand accounts of terror. He welcomed the chill seeping its way beneath his skin, numbing his fingers and toes. It meant some part of him was at least close to human. 

He reveled in the weird, sharp hunger that gnawed on tender nerves, appreciated the gravity of it and let himself sink into the deep, syrupy ache. He's on the brink. Can feel it in the heavy throbbing in his chest, behind his heart, taking up every empty space and making it difficult to breathe. The weight of his mistakes he supposed, a breadcrumb path he could follow all the way back, beginning with accepting the Head Archivist position instead of walking away. Then again, he’d never known when to stop and that didn’t seem like it was going to change anytime soon; that _need_ for answers, to understand, to connect every dot, to soothe the sting of losing all his friends in favor of embracing a monster. 

But _Lord_ he missed them and they were right _there_. They just weren’t there for him anymore and he had only himself to blame. 

Jon doesn’t ask for comfort, he’d be the first to admit he didn’t deserve any and is...content he thinks is the word, to wait until Tim and Martin and Melanie and Daisy and Basira decide he’s suffered enough to prove his worth and let him back in. It was cold down here. It was colder alone and the temptation to _give in_ was so _strong_ if only because he’d be warm again and he’s so, so _tired_ of being lonely. 

But he could get something nearly as good. Recognition that _something_ happened to him, that he was still here, still _Jon_ even if he was unwanted, there was enough of him left to hate. He knew how to be that. He'd always been that. Static, now always a low, persistent hum in the back of his mind, shoved forward suddenly with the Knowledge that Tim had decided to look in the tunnels. 

Tim wanted to hurt him and he wanted to be hurt. To let it assuage the guilt even for a moment. 

Jon already _Knows_ he's spoiling for a fight. 

Of course he was the one who would find Jon. Arse is mere meters down the tunnel and leaning with his back against the wall, arms hanging loose over knobby knees and looking for all the world like someone had kicked his puppy. 

And what right did he have when he was the cause of all this fear and paranoia and _death_.

“Tim.” Bland recognition and it sent a shiver racing up his spine because it wasn’t like he had to turn and check, not with his spooky powers. No. He just knew everything now, didn’t he? How convenient. Tim could barely reconcile the figure in front of him with the friend who used to work with him in Research. This Jon was a slip of a man. An intruder he didn’t know and didn’t _want_ to know. This Jon was lies and secrets and silvery scars mapping out the tragedy he’d led them all into willingly in his search for more and more and more. Damn the consequences, never content to let things be. No. This Jon was disorder and disarray, wild curls and no tie and the buttons leading up to his rust stained collar undone. There was dirt caked under the nails of his unbandaged hand and cobweb mingling with the premature grey in his hair and the nervous, twitching energy, the inability to stay still, conspicuously absent. 

This Jon was a stranger who didn’t care who he harmed. 

This Jon threw them all away like they were less than rubbish and the only way Tim could stomach interacting with him was behind a mask of contempt and hostility. 

“Thought you’d be out looking for victims.” Involuntarily his lips curled up in a sneer.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Meticulously enunciated and condescending, strange eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. It angered him that Jon wouldn’t look at him. He could at least have the decency to look him in the face when he lied to him. 

“Why are you down here anyway? Hiding? Plotting?” Jon snarled in response, low and dark, brows knitted in scorn.

“And what business is that of yours?” Bare more than a keen hiss and all Tim heard was an invitation to the party because it was so much easier on his conscience to paint Jon as deserving rather than admit he might be as much a victim here as the rest of them. Such a convenient target to aim at, to focus the knife edged anger and rage and _agony_ at and Jon is so good at pushing every button. It was like he wanted this. Wanted to fight. 

“Someone has to keep track of you and your secrets! Your _lies_!” Tim closed his eyes and tugged on his hair. “They’re _killing_ us and you don’t even care!” 

“ _You don’t know that._ ” Well now he had his attention and the flash of unnatural viridian had to be a trick, a reflection. 

“I don’t need supernatural powers to know _you_!” He saw the hit land in the way Jon’s expression slipped and Tim felt _good_ , the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins was heady and strong. “You’re running. From everything. And it all started when you began running from _us._ ” 

“I’m _not_.” At this point, Tim wasn’t sure Jon was capable of standing because surely he wouldn’t take this sitting in the dust and he didn’t care. This was the most he’d felt since this all began. He didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. Not before he’d _made_ Jon understand.

“You're not even trying!” He spat, watching his shaking hands curl into fists, watching shadows soak into the bandages. “You just let things _happen_ to you--”

“Oh yes, _Tim_!” Hurling his name like a curse, Jon stared up at him, narrow chest heaving fast. “I just _let_ the Circus have me. I just _let_ Daisy beat me unconscious and threaten to put me down.” For a moment, Tim thought he saw tears glittering on his face. “ _What do you know about how hard I'm trying?_ ” The whole of him was shaking now, trembling as he sucked down noisy breaths. “Always _sulking_ about this place! Maybe if _you’d_ been paying better attention you’d have noticed Sasha was gone!” He collapsed against the wall, lazy grin carving up his face. Like he’d won the game. Landed the finished blow. “You may claim to know me. But clearly, you never knew _her._ ” Lunging with a hoarse cry, Tim snatched him up by his collar, so close to the healing slash crusted with old blood bisecting his throat. 

He only smiled wider. Manic. Frantic. Fingers grasping automatically at his wrists and Tim could _feel_ sticky warmth marking his arm. 

"Go on then! I know you want to.” Jon was whispering, words tripping over themselves in his haste to spit them out. “You can't stand me. Just like Daisy can't stand me. You want this. I _Know_ yo--" 

An echoing crack followed after the back of Tim’s hand collided with Jon’s mouth. 

Replaced soon after by blessed quiet broken only by Jon’s harsh and strangled panting. 

Tim dropped him back to the floor. Shaken. Disgusted. He didn’t know with whom. Maybe both of them.

"You never shut up."

Jon tongued the cut on his lip while Tim watched a bead of ruby so dark it was almost black roll down his chin and drip down onto the white fabric of his rumpled dress shirt where it would dry and age and match the rest that was there before whatever this was. He didn’t bother wiping it away. 

“Feel better?” 

“You know I don’t.” 

Shaking out his hand, Tim collapsed beside him in silence, staring resolutely ahead, lips pressed thin until Jon’s head tipped slowly forward, chin coming to rest on his collarbone and smudging more red. Even in his peripheral vision Tim recognized it for what it was and knew if he looked properly he’d see tears steadily falling from his damned eyes despite how hushed he remained. He peeked anyway, witnessed him cave in and bring arms up to hug himself in a desperate bid to hold his pieces together. But he doesn't look at Tim. Doesn't reach for him like he used to. 

"I _am_ trying." He whispered, voice immeasurably limned with exhaustion. 

Like a switch had been flipped, he was Jon again. Tired and drawn. Overwhelmed and lost and isolated. Tipped so far over the edge he goaded Tim into striking him because it was the best he could expect. Because at least he had Tim's full attention for a moment. And Tim walked right into it, led easily like a moth to a flame. 

What a pair they made here at what might be the end of all things. 

Troubled, Tim pulled him roughly into his side, hardening his heart against the whimper of pain and the stiffening of his entire body. Jon was skin and bone. Had dropped at least two stone he couldn't afford to lose. Tim had watched it happen and done nothing. 

There were no apologies exchanged and when Tim dragged him stumbling into the light of the Archives, no one commented on the split lip or the new bruise or the blood dried and flaking that traced his jaw.

Jon was just a stranger.

No one cared if he'd been harmed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, please lemme know ^^''


End file.
